


Puppy Fat

by wreckingthefinite



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF Lydia Martin, Barebacking, Belly Kink, Chubby Kink, Chubby Stiles, Comfort Food, Dirty Talk, Everybody Lives, Food Issues, Food Kink, Grinding, Intercrural Sex, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, PWP, Praise Kink, Sexting, Stuffing, Weight Gain, tummy grabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-05 10:08:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Now, on the drive up, all Derek can think of is Stiles.  Will he look different?  Older?  God, Derek hates to even think it, but he hopes not.  He wants Stiles to look as he always has—long limbs, light musculature, the softest, slightest hint of puppy fat clinging at his tummy, his cheeks.  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or the one where I write "Stiles gets chubby in college and Derek loves it" fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely self-indulgent chubby kink. Shameless PWP. I will probably continue this verse for a bit, so more chapters to come. No beta, so feel free to note any needed corrections. Comments so very welcome!
> 
> On tumblr: [missjanedoeeyes ](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com). Come find me and let's talk kinky fic.

Derek doesn’t speed on the drive, even though he wants to—he’s anxious, feels like he could have left the car in Beacon Hills and run faster than this.

Stiles hasn’t been home since the semester began, and it’s November now. It feels, although Derek won’t admit it, far too long. Stiles, of course, seems oblivious to the fact that Derek has missed him. He texts Derek, little chatty paragraphs—full paragraphs!—of text now and then, jumbled updates that sometimes Derek can barely parse. _I miss you, Sourwolf, but college is great, and it’s so RELAXING not to be sure something evil is jumping around every corner_ , a text from Stiles might begin, before devolving into chatter about courses, professors, his floormates. It’s all fairly mundane, but Derek reads each one thoroughly, even if he can only bring himself to respond a few words here and there. _Go to class, Stiles. Don’t forget your meds. Call your dad._ Instructions that Stiles will interpret as Alpha talk. 

When Stiles finally suggested Derek come visit, it was all Derek could do not to jump in his car immediately, to force himself to wait and make plans. Now, on the drive up, all Derek can think of is Stiles. Will he look different? Older? God, Derek hates to even think it, but he hopes not. He wants Stiles to look as he always has—long limbs, light musculature, the softest, slightest hint of puppy fat clinging at his tummy, his cheeks. Derek knows Stiles hates it, has even heard him complain now and then about how hard it is for his ego to run with wolves. 

Derek knows that if Stiles had the choice, Stiles’ body would look like his own, complete with broad shoulders and slatted abs. Derek wrinkles his nose at the thought. The wolf in him hates even the idea of it. Stiles’ body is human, delicate, young, and Derek loves it all the more because of those things. The puppy fat that lingers on his tummy, hiding his abs even though his belly is flat, drives Derek crazy, makes him want mark it up with his mouth, his teeth, his claws. The barely-there hint of softness at Stiles’ cheeks, at his chin when he looks down at his phone—Derek loves it, will be disappointed if, in the intervening months, Stiles has shed the last few vestiges of adolescence. 

He doesn’t know, exactly, what it is that draws him to those things, particularly, about Stiles. If he is honest with himself—and he rarely is—he is attracted to everything about Stiles, from his big brown eyes to his pale skin, his strangely confident hands, always moving and tapping, his ever-running mouth which never seems to shut. But the way he feels about the soft parts of Stiles? That is an altogether different kind of attraction. Maybe the wolf in him likes the little ways that Stiles is still a pup. Or maybe it’s the pseudo-femininity of it, that slight softness that stands in contrast to Derek’s own hypermasculinity. Whatever it is, he hopes it hasn’t disappeared in Stiles’ absence. 

He texts Stiles when he pulls onto campus, and by the time he parks and gets to Stiles’ building, Stiles is standing outside, huddled in a red hoodie against the cold. His eyes light up when he sees Derek, though, and before Derek can brace himself, he’s got an armful of Stiles, who launches himself at Derek.

“Hey, buddy!” Stiles throws his body into the hug, as if he figures he can just force Derek into it. And he can—he does. Derek brings his arms up, awkwardly, around Stiles shoulders, surreptitiously inhales Stiles’ scent and breathes in Speed Stick and ink, pizza and root beer, Dentyne Ice and Stiles’ own scent, happy and, for once, free of anxiety. “You made it!” 

“Hey,” Derek says, not bothering to think of anything else to add. It’s one of the ways that Stiles managed to worm his way into Derek’s affections—he talks enough that Derek is allowed to be silent, or nearly so. Talking is hard for Derek, and Stiles doesn’t require him to do much of it. 

“Come upstairs, it’s fucking freezing.” Stiles grabs Derek by the arm and tugs him into the building. “I’m on the fifth floor, so elevator, definitely, right?”

Derek shrugs, allowing himself to be led. 

“Ugh, god, a few months away from wolves and I forget how annoying it is to be around people who could run to the twelfth floor and back without breaking a sweat. Get on the elevator and pretend to be a puny human, ‘kay?” Stiles’ teasing is good-natured, without heat, and Derek relaxes into it. 

When they get to his room, Stiles throws the door open without ceremony. “Welcome to Casa de Stilinski. It’s a double, but my roommate dropped out after the second week of classes. I’d feel bad, but now I’ve got the whole place to myself, so it’s all good.” 

Derek stands just inside the doorway, tugging at his leather jacket. The room is hot, even though Stiles has two of his windows cracked. 

“Ugh, yeah, the dorms are hot as balls since the heaters kicked on,” Stiles says, reading Derek’s discomfort. He pulls his hoodie over his head, and his white tee rides up just a bit, enough for Derek to see an inch of two of soft pale tummy. No new definition, no developing abs. Instead, Derek thinks, Stiles is _softer_ , somehow. Was it a trick of the light, the way it looked like Stiles’ pale white underbelly might have curved ever-so-slightly over the waist of his jeans? It had to be. Certainly. Unless…

“Well, dude?” Stiles’ voice breaks Derek’s reverie, and he realizes that Stiles has tossed his hoodie aside and flopped down onto his bed—which appears actually to be two twin beds shoved together. The perks of having an absentee roommate, apparently. “Take your coat off and stay awhile, Sourwolf.” 

Derek frowns, mostly out of habit, and shrugs off his jacket. Stiles threw his own hoodie on the floor, but Derek lays his leather carefully across the back of Stiles’ computer chair. He contemplates sitting on the bed, but somehow he can’t seem to make himself do it, so he drops into the chair instead. 

“So what do you wanna do?” Stiles asks, reclining back against his pillows. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and Derek watches as he fishes it out and stares down at the screen. Is his jawline softer? Maybe? 

“It’s Scott,” Stiles informs Derek without looking up, punching away at the phone. “He says you’ve been fucking grumpy, and I’m supposed to entertain you this weekend so you stop being a dick.” He finishes whatever he’s saying in response and then grins up at Derek. “That true, bud? You been a dick?”

Derek’s frown intensifies. “No. Scott is—no.”

“Scott’s in love with Isaac,” Stiles says matter-of-factly, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Isn’t he?”

Derek blinks. “What?”

“Oh, god, it’s obvious, but whatever. Not important now. You hungry?” 

Derek blinks again. He’s forgotten how quickly Stiles changes subjects. “Uh—“

“Of course you are, werewolves are always hungry. So we could totally go somewhere, but there’s this awesome little local place that delivers to campus, and we could get pizza?”

“You had pizza earlier,” Derek says, before he can stop himself. 

Stiles snorts. “Yeah well, it’s college, buddy. And it’s not polite to sniff people. That was some awful cafeteria shit a few hours ago, anyway. Delivery from Carino’s is a whole other level. You’ll see. That cool with you, Alpha?”

Derek’s heart stutters once at the title, even though Stiles is clearly saying it facetiously. Derek can’t help it; even in jest, the idea that Stiles would refer to him that way, acknowledge his dominance that way, is instantly arousing. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Fine.” 

Stiles already has his phone out again, calling in an order for an extra large pie with “all the meat, just throw it all on there,” and two orders of breadsticks. While he talks, Derek takes the opportunity to take inventory of Stiles’ body again, unable to resist the temptation to stare, to try to see if the little curve of Stiles’ belly that he’d thought he had seen was real. It’s hard to say, as Stile’s t-shirt is bunched around his waist, making it hard to tell what might be flesh and what might be fabric. 

*

When the pizza arrives, Derek hands Stiles two twenty dollar bills. Stiles tries to refuse, and Derek just lets his eyes flash red. Stiles rolls his own in response. “Oh, Jesus, seriously? Red eyes over that? Overkill.” But he takes the money, and Derek is satisfied. 

Derek remembers a time when Stiles was awkward, when sitting alone in a dorm room with him would have been excruciatingly uncomfortable—both because of Derek’s latent arousal and because of Stiles’ inability to calm down. That time has passed, though. Truthfully, it’s been a year or so since Stiles seemed to come into himself, and Derek isn’t surprised by Stiles’ easy demeanor. Not even when Stiles scatters the food across his bed and then pats the space next to him, grinning up at Derek. “Get up here, big guy. I know you’re secretly just as tactile as the rest of the pack, and you’re just dying to sit next to me.” 

Derek runs his fingers through his hair, thankful that he isn’t prone to blushing. He glares at Stiles, but he does as he says, sprawling out next to Stiles and grabbing a slice. 

It’s sort of amazing how much Stiles eats, Derek realizes. He’s paying attention, for some reason. Just like he can’t stop glancing over to Stiles’ belly, can’t stop noticing the way that it’s _not_ just the cotton of his t-shirt bunching up at his waist—it’s also a little pouf of belly that Derek knows wasn’t there when Stiles left Beacon Hills a few months ago. 

They’ve watched two episodes of the The Walking Dead, and the pizza is nearly gone—along with most of the breadsticks, even though there were two orders, and Derek only ate a couple himself. Stiles didn’t used to eat like this, and Derek can’t stop thinking about it, wondering if maybe Stiles would have, before, if they hadn’t constantly been battling something or other. Maybe this is what relaxation looks like on Stiles. Too much pizza, shitty TV (and yes, The Walking Dead is shitty, Derek keeps telling Stiles it’s terrible and that zombies as a premise are ridiculous, to which Stiles just replies, “You turn into a fucking wolf. What the fuck do you know about ridiculous?”), gaining the Freshman Fifteen, being _happy_. It’s like getting to know Stiles all over again, seeing him like this. 

When the last slice of pizza disappears down his throat, Stiles climbs off the bed and tosses the empty pizza box in the direction of the trash can. Derek watches as he moves, watches the way his t-shirt clings a little to his belly—and yes, it’s definitely a belly, and it definitely isn’t completely flat. 

Fuck. 

Stiles disappears down the hall to the bathroom, reappears a few minutes later in sleep pants and the same probably-fit-better-ten-pounds-ago t-shirt. “So I would volunteer to take you out or something,” he says, smirking, “but I can’t imagine you’d want to hit a college party. And I’ll be honest, I’m fucking tired. I had two papers due this week and the group project from hell. So seriously, TV and crash? You cool with that?”

Derek nods. He would have refused to tag along to a party, if Stiles had tried to convince him to go. He’s too old for that shit. “This is good.”

“Cool.” Stiles grins, open and easy, and climbs back into bed next to him. 

They had sprawled on top of the covers to eat, but apparently Stiles assumes that Derek is going to share the bed with him tonight. Nothing has been said to indicate anything different, and Derek, frankly, is so on board with that idea. So. On. Board. 

He stands up, shucks his Henley, toes off his socks. Fuck it, Stiles is in his sleep pants, and Derek is taking it as an invitation. He thumbs the tab on his jeans and pulls them down, too, kicks them off until he’s standing there in nothing but boxer briefs. “Get under the covers, Stiles.” 

Stiles looks a little shocked—maybe a lot shocked—but he gets with the program. He scrambles to lift his hips up and pulls off the pajama pants, and Derek stares as his thighs are revealed, soft and white and _soft_ , fuck, Derek wants to rub his scruff against them till they’re pink all over. Stiles shimmies under the covers and then holds them up for Derek. “C’mon, then. I know you’re dying to cuddle.” 

Derek snorts. He’s dying to something. He gets into bed, and Stiles reaches and pulls the cord on the light above the bed, pitching the room into darkness. 

They watch another episode. Derek bitches throughout. Who would ride a loudass motorcycle in the zombie apocalypse? An asshole, that’s who. 

“Daryl’s hot, though,” Stiles says, shrugging and slouching so that his shoulder bumps against Derek. “He rides a motorcycle and has a traumatic past and holds babies and shit. My ovaries explode every time he’s on the screen.” 

“It’s clichéd.” 

“You drive a loudass Camaro and have a traumatic past. I bet you would hold the fuck out of a baby.” 

It’s not untrue. Wolves like pups, like pack. “Do your ovaries explode when you see me?” Derek asks dryly. 

Stiles heart speeds up, and he closes the Netflix tab and sets the computer on the floor beside the bed. “Seriously, so tired, dude.” 

Derek stretches out, not exactly touching Stiles yet, but completely aware of his heat. He waits, letting Stiles flop around a few minutes before he reaches out, hooking an arm over Stiles body and pulling him in until his back is pressed to Derek’s chest. “You wiggle too much.” 

Stiles is tense for a minute, and his heart is _pounding_. Derek breathes slowly, in and out, knowing that Stiles will sync his own breathing to match. When he settles a bit, Derek moves his hand from its spot near Stiles’ collarbone and slides lower. Lower, lower, until he finally touches what he’s wanted to touch all goddamn night. The soft, gentle swell of Stiles’ belly under his t-shirt. 

The curve of his tummy is noticeable, probably because he’s bloated from the pizza and breadsticks he’d inhaled earlier, not to mention the three cans of root beer he’d downed over the course of the evening—and yes, Derek had counted. Stiles’ heart is racing, even faster now that Derek is touching this sensitive part of him. Derek wonders if he should stop, move his hand. It’s obvious Stiles is uneasy now. 

But he can’t. “Relax, Stiles.” He strokes gently, feeling the bloated curve of Stiles’ little belly. 

“Umm. You’re a little handsy there, buddy,” Stiles says, whole body tense. 

“Do you want me to quit?” 

“Uh. Well—I mean, you _don’t_ want to quit?” 

Derek swallows. “No.” 

“What do you want?” Stiles asks, and his voice is a whisper. 

Derek closes his eyes, rubs circles over Stiles’ belly. “I want—I want you to take this shirt off.” 

*

In the dim streetlight that pours through the window, Stiles' pale skin looks silvery. It should be sexy, maybe, but all Stiles can think about is how bloated his gut looks, every ounce of the Freshman Fifteen clearly rendered on his soft belly, made all the worse by all the pizza and breadsticks and soda he’d shoved in his face for no good reason except he was happy, no good reason except he was used to eating like a pig and didn’t even think about it anymore, just did it. Fuck. 

Derek doesn’t seem repulsed, though. The opposite, in fact, might be true, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do when Derek reaches out and pulls him down until he’s lying down next to him, so that they’re facing each other. 

Derek’s hand comes back out, and it’s on Stiles’ belly again before Stiles can even suck in his pooch. “What—why—don’t fucking _pinch_ me, dude!” Stiles exclaims, sounding shrill to his own ears. 

“You got chubby, Stiles.” 

Stiles feels himself go red, knows that even in the dark room Derek can see how pink his cheeks must be right now. He reaches down, tries to shove Derek’s hand away. “Don’t be a dick, Derek,” he says, and he means to sound firm but it comes out a whisper. 

Derek paws Stiles’ hand away and grabs Stiles’ gut again. “I’m not. Not being a dick.” He slides his hand lower, circling Stiles’ belly button and sliding down to the lower belly, the soft fat that clings below his navel now. His chest rumbles, and it’s not quite a growl, but it’s also nothing Stiles has ever heard before. If wolves could purr, he’d say that was what Derek was doing. 

“Just telling me I’m fat to be friendly, then?” Stiles pushes, trying to figure out what Derek wants from him, what he’s getting from this. 

“Not fat,” Derek says, pinching again. “But soft, Stiles, fuck.” He groans. “So fucking soft.” 

“And you _like_ that?” 

“You always were soft, just a little bit, right here,” Derek mumbles, stroking the soft skin of his lower belly. “I was—I was afraid you’d have lost it by now, afraid it would be gone, but—but this is so much better. So soft, Stiles.” 

Stiles feels like his cheeks will catch fire soon, he’s so fucking embarrassed, and he knows Derek can smell it, smell the shame and humiliation on him, and why, why the fuck is he doing this? This is so close to what he’s dreamed about forever, being in bed with Derek, Derek touching him. So close, and yet so fucking far away from what he has fantasized about. 

“Don’t be ashamed,” Derek says, his voice pitched low, maybe just a tiny bit authoritative. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re gorgeous like this.” 

“Fat?” Stiles can’t help but say the word, can’t help but need for Derek to explain this, to define it somehow. 

“Puppy fat,” Derek offers, shifting forward so that their faces are just a couple of inches apart. “Just a little”—he pauses, pinching a roll of pudge between his finger and thumb—“soft, so soft, Stiles.” 

“Jesus, Derek.” 

Derek moves, rolling them suddenly so that he’s on top of Stiles. “If you don’t want this, tell me now,” he says, and now it is a command. 

“I want this,” Stiles says, not knowing what _it_ is, but knowing he wants it. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He rolls his hips without really meaning to. It pushes his cock against Stiles’ little belly, and _fuck_ , Derek thinks he could probably come just from that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orgasms. This chapter has 'em.

It’s overwhelming, being on top of Stiles like this. This wasn’t part of Derek’s plan. He didn’t drive up to do this. It wasn’t premeditated. He just fucking missed the kid, missed the constant stream of his conversation, missed his scent, missed _him_. And now Stiles is right here, underneath him, and there’s more of him, and it’s fucking excruciating, and Derek feels like he might shatter apart with a wanting that he didn’t even know he had.

He rolls his hips without really meaning to. It pushes his cock against Stiles’ little belly, and _fuck_ , Derek thinks he could probably come just from that. Stiles is equal parts ashamed and turned on—his scent is overwhelming—and Derek is pretty sure he’s matching the kid emotion for emotion. He’s never been so fucking turned on, and he’s never felt so fucking bad for it. What is Derek’s life, that he’s trying to convince himself not to dry hump a 19 year old in his dorm room because he just really wants to push his dick against the kid’s belly until he comes? Jesus Christ. 

He snaps his hips again, and Stiles groans under him, reaching up and wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck. “I—Derek, I—I—“ Stiles trails off, and Derek thinks vaguely that this might be the first time he’s ever seen Stiles without something to say. 

“Shh. Just—just let me.” He grinds down again, pushing his dick against Stiles’ tummy until Stiles groans, shifts, pushes his own hips up so that Derek can feel Stiles’ hard-on, and fuck, this is _happening_. 

“’Kay. ‘Kay, Derek,” Stiles says in a slur, and Derek pulls himself together. He reaches down, ghosts his hand over Stiles’ belly and lower, tugging at the elastic waist of his boxers until Stiles lifts his hips. Stiles moans a little as he shifts, and Derek can actually hear his stomach gurgle. He wonders if Stiles’ groan is out of anticipation or because he’s so full he’s uncomfortable, and he realizes he’s not sure which answer he hopes is true. 

He pulls the boxers down and off, tossing them aside, and slides down the bed, stopping to rest his cheek against Stiles’ taut belly. It’s so small and yet so present, swollen tight with too much food but soft, too, over the bloat. “Pup,” Derek mutters, rubbing his cheek over Stiles’ tummy over and over, blatantly scenting him. He knows Stiles knows enough about wolves to know what he’s doing—god, the kid has researched every fucking thing about his kind under the sun, bless him—so he doesn’t bother to hide it, like he might with most human partners. Stiles doesn’t seem to mind, anyway. His hands come up and tangle gently in Derek’s hair, never pushing or pulling, just resting there. 

When he feels sated, knows that Stiles is marked up as his, belly pink from his scruff, smelling like _DerekDereksexDerek_ from ribs to navel to pubic bone, Derek plants a kiss on Stiles’ soft lower belly, licks a stripe down, down, burying his nose in Stiles’ neatly shorn pubic hair. Stiles is writhing now, cock red, already leaking and so fucking pretty, but Derek bypasses it entirely to set up camp between Stiles’ thighs. Fuck, they’re _perfect_ , smooth and creamy, lightly dusted with blonde hair. Derek sucks up a bruise on the inside of each one, high up where the flesh is soft, pale, never exposed to sunlight. Before he thinks about it, Derek is gripping each of Stiles’ thighs, probably harder than he should, probably hard enough to leave bruises, and Stiles is groaning, and the soft chubby flesh is wobbling just a little under Derek’s shaking hands. It’s almost more than Derek can handle, and he doesn’t even know why. Just that he wants to mouth and suck and bite, and his fangs drop a little, and he knows his eyes are red. “Pup, pup, so fucking pretty,” he mumbles, not sure if Stiles can hear him, half afraid that he will notice the lisp from his fangs and will be freaked out. 

“C’mere.” Stiles tugs just a little on his shoulders, gentle, and Derek allows himself to be guided back up. He’s a little afraid to see Stiles’ expression when he realizes Derek’s eyes and fangs have shifted, but Stiles just looks at him, pupils dark and blown, and he angles his head to the side, exposes his throat. Derek growls, involuntary and helpless to stop it, but Stiles doesn’t seem to mind, so Derek pulls himself up and marks Stiles’ neck, too, giving in and laving his tongue everywhere, up and down the delicate skin of Stiles’ neck, moving up to nip at the tiny little dab of flesh at his chin, back down to ring his throat in shameless bruises until Stiles is gasping, begging, underneath him. 

He’d wanted to blow Stiles—had thought that’s what he’d do—but he doesn’t want to bother retracting his fangs. Something about Stiles like this, soft and plump and laid out beneath him, makes it hard to control the shift. Even more, it makes Derek not _want_ to control it. So he spits in his palm instead and reaches down, grasping Stiles’ cock. “Gonna take care of you,” he says, a little surprised at himself when a stream of words spill out as he strokes Stiles. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby, you’re so good, so good for me like this.” It’s more than he usually says to a lover; he’s not one for dirty talk, or talk at all, typically. “So pretty, so soft, pup.” He’s surprised, too, that he keeps calling Stiles that, _pup_ ; it’s an endearment that makes sense to Derek, completely, but it’s not something he would assume a human partner would welcome or desire. But Stiles—Stiles is different. Just like he knew to expose his throat, just like Derek’s eyes don’t bother him, this doesn’t either, and when Derek says it again, whispers, “Come for me, puppy,” Stiles _does_ , whimpering and sounding near tears as he spills over Derek’s hand. 

Derek milks him through it, lets come coat his hand before he smears it over Stiles’ round tummy, acting purely on instinct. Stiles groans, lets him do it, and Derek _aches_ with wanting. 

“You want to come on my belly too, don’t you?” Stiles whispers when he catches his breath, his eyes still wide in the darkness. “You want to mix our come up together, rub it on me, don’t you?” 

Derek nods, transfixed, struck dumb again, back to his silent self. 

“Then do it, Derek. Do it, come on my belly, cover me up in your come, _do it_ ,” Stiles says, and it sounds like an order but it’s not, it’s begging, and it undoes Derek completely. Two strokes, three, four, and he’s coming, painting Stiles’ tummy with stroke after stroke of semen. He’s drenched in it, he’ll smell like Derek for days no matter how many showers he has, and that’s good, that’s right, that’s all Derek wants. 

They’re both still panting, wrung out, and Derek rolls off to the side and pulls Stiles over against him, cradles him against his shoulder. Stiles shifts closer to him, and Derek drags his fingers through the cooling mess on Stiles’ belly. He’s covered in come, completely debauched. 

A part of Derek doesn’t want Stiles to clean up, even though he knows it’s only fair, knows he can’t expect him to fall asleep with come drying all over him. When they’re both wiped clean, Derek tugs Stiles back down to the bed and pulls him flush against him. He could go again, and he knows by scent alone that Stiles could, as well—but he doesn’t want that. For reasons he’s not ready to explore, he doesn’t want anything more than to pull Stiles close to him, to keep him tucked up against him. For once, Stiles doesn’t argue, doesn’t start a conversation, doesn’t pepper Derek with questions. He just allows Derek to manhandle him into place, closes his eyes and lets his body go limp, even when Derek’s hand falls to his tummy again and strokes lightly, gently, as they fall asleep. 

*

Stiles isn’t sure what it says about him and his life that waking up next to Derek Hale feels like the strangest thing that’s ever happened to him; after all, he’s friends with werewolves and a banshee and was once stalked by a giant lizard. But still—this is something he never expected to happen. 

He wakes up with Derek draped over him, his leg thrown over Stiles’, his heavy arm clamped around Stiles’ waist, his huge warm hand cupping the little pooch of Stiles’ lower belly. It’s warm, and Derek smells good, and his whole body seems to rise and fall with each deep breath he takes. He looks so relaxed, so easy, like this. It’s not an expression Stiles is used to seeing. It’s a good look for Derek. 

Stiles doesn’t take much time to appreciate it, though, squirming out from Derek’s embrace and hotfooting it down the hall to the bathroom. It’s only 7:30 on a Saturday morning, so he has the place to himself. Before he gets in the shower, he pulls his shirt off, stands there in front of the mirror in his sleep pants. Forces himself to look—really look—at himself. 

_You got chubby, Stiles_. Derek’s words from last night echo in his head, dredge up a heady mix of guilt and shame and arousal that he’s not sure how to process. Until last night, he hadn’t really acknowledged it, he guessed. Yeah, his jeans were tight—hell, he’d actually retired a couple of his skinniest. But other than that? Yeah, on some level he’d known he was fastening his jeans a little lower than usual ( _under your fat belly_ , a voice in his head chimes helpfully), and yeah, maybe a few of his t-shirts felt a little clingy, but really? He’d just sort of been existing. College was fun. He had friends. He went out. He ate—in the cafeteria, in the Student Union, in his room. Carry out and Ramen and delivery. Okay, so maybe he’d been eating a lot. But it was college, damn it! Pizza and beer was part of the culture. He wasn’t supposed to have to worry about that shit. 

Until his stupid Werewolf-Crush-Slash-Alpha suddenly appeared and informed him he was fat and then jerked off all over the softest, chubbiest parts of him. 

What the fuck was that, even?

Stiles makes himself take a long look in the mirror. Under his hoodie, no one can tell, but like this? Yeah, he’s….chubby. Tummy has a little curve to it, rounding out under his pecs and sitting there, a little pooch that sticks out over the elastic of sleep pants, just barely, just an inch or so. And maybe his chest is just a little softer, too? Maybe. He turns to the side, angles his chin up and down. Is that a _fucking double chin_? No. Nope, nope, nope. It’s really not. 

So yeah. He’s chubby, and the werewolf of his dreams maybe sort of likes it? What? 

*

By the time he’s showered and back in his room, Derek is sitting up in bed, shirtless, jeans on but unbuttoned, looking like the walking wet dream that he is. “Uh—“ Stiles isn’t sure where to start, so he stammers around a bit, completely unsure of what the appropriate protocol is here. He’s had a couple of one-nighters since he’s been in college, slept with a pretty blonde who reminded him superficially of Erica and exchanged blowjobs with a guy from his chem lab, but in both cases, they’d just taken off the next morning. Easy come, easy go. It isn’t like that with Derek. Can’t be. They’re pack. And no matter how awkward this might be, Derek will still be his Alpha. Stiles knows that, trusts it, believes it so much that the thought that it might not be true doesn’t even really occur to him, not fully. 

“We should go get breakfast,” Derek says, cutting Stiles off before he can tie himself into too many knots trying to decide what to say. 

“Um. Yeah. We should?”

Derek nods. “Yes. Get dressed.” 

And so Stiles does, and Derek takes him to the greasy spoon on the edge of campus, where all the kids go for hangover fare the morning after. Derek has black coffee and an omelet, and Stiles eats the enormous stack of pancakes and bacon that Derek ordered for him, without so much as consulting him, when the waitress came by. 

At first, Stiles is vibrating with nerves, but Derek—Derek just won’t let him get stuck in his own head. Instead, Derek tells him stories about the pack that he’s missed out on. Little things, nothing important, really. Talks about his plans to rebuild on the Hale property. Mentions that Lydia is wanting to orchestrate a pack Thanksgiving dinner over their break, when everyone is back. It’s funny, because Derek still isn’t what you’d call verbose. He tells Stiles these things in short, almost clipped sentences—but he does it. Makes the effort. And soon Stiles has calmed down enough to eat, and things are almost normal between them. Well. Almost. 

*

That evening, when they’re lazing around on Stiles’ bed for the second night in a row, this time with nearly empty Chinese takeout boxes spread out in front of them, Stiles can’t seem to help himself. “So, like, you have a thing for—“

“Shh,” Derek interrupts. “Eat your egg rolls.”

Stiles exhales, frustrated. “You bought me six of them, Derek.”

“So that should keep you quiet for a while.”

“I can’t—I’m stuffed,” Stiles says, even as he picks up an egg roll and takes a bite. 

Derek twitches, looking over at him and raising a brow. “No? I bet you could.” 

“You ordered me enough food for like four people, dude.”

“And you finished it,” Derek says, letting his eyes drop down to Stiles’ once again bloated tummy. “Surely you can handle a few egg rolls.”

“Oh my god! You’re trying to make me—“

Derek isn’t ready for this conversation—not at all. So he cuts Stiles off the only way he can think of, by grabbing an egg roll and poking it in Stiles’ mouth mid-sentence. 

Stiles’ eyes widen in surprise, but he takes what is being offered and chews, looking almost comically shocked. Derek schools his own expression into careful neutrality. He knows that Stiles wants to play twenty questions with him, wants to figure out exactly what’s happening between them, and the truth is that Derek just can’t handle that conversation. The truth is, he doesn’t know how to answer Stiles’ questions. 

He wants Stiles. He’s wanted him for far too long, wanted him before it was socially—or legally—acceptable to want him. But now, now that Stiles is of age and this has sprung up between them, it’s more than it was before. He still wants Stiles, still is drawn to him for all the reasons he ever was, but now it’s all tied up with the way Stiles looks now, soft and delicate, so painfully fucking human. 

Part of it, Derek thinks, is that humanity—Stiles is a human in his pack, fierce and smart, brave and strong, but ultimately weak, weaker and more frail than the wolves around him. Derek is drawn to that humanity, just as he knows Stiles is drawn to Derek’s strength, the things about him that are _not_ human. But it’s more than that, now. Derek wants to feed him, wants to touch all the parts of him that are soft and chubby and _fat_. That urge is all tied up in Stiles’ humanity, too, though. Derek wants to make Stiles _his_ , wants to feed him and keep him safe, wants to revel in all the ways that Stiles’ body is softly, delicately human. Pale and pudgy, a sharp contrast to the planes and angles of Derek’s own body. 

But he can barely think through these things in his own head. He knows he’ll fail to explain it to Stiles, knows that he can’t express it. 

So he distracts Stiles, handfeeds him four eggrolls and revels in how bloated Stiles’ tummy is for the second night in a row. 

This time he does blow Stiles, skillfully sucking his cock while one hand rubs gentle circles on Stiles’ tummy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been sort of blown away by the response this fic received--it's such a niche kink! I didn't think there would be much of an audience for it. Thanks for the love! 
> 
> Anyway, I'm delighted to know folks are actually reading this. If y'all have particular things you'd like to see happen, you can always say so in the comments. I can't promise, but I'm open to suggestions.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles does research, Derek sucks at communicating, and dirty texting ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to god my Id just sits down and types this shit out like it's their job.

The moment Derek leaves on Sunday morning—which was as awkward as Stiles knew it would be, by the way, and left Stiles with absolutely no idea where their relationship stood or if this would ever happen again—Stiles is immediately on his laptop. Forget anything else he’s ever looked up: the events of this weekend require research.

A few choice Google searches later, and Stiles is knee deep in a whole new world and is fairly well convinced that Derek has a fat fetish.

So that’s a thing, apparently. 

Stiles is actually a little disappointed in himself that this is the first time he’s encountered it. He likes to fancy himself something of a porn aficionado, and it feels like this is something he should have discovered earlier, especially since, once he is looking for it, it seems fairly common. At least, common in internet terms. Rule 34. That shit is real.

Now that he knows it exists, Stiles is all over it. He loses a good three hours immersing himself in various Tumblrs, and by noon he’s fully versed in everything from stuffing to feederism. Which, hi, knowing all of this shit exists doesn’t actually answer any of his questions about what just happened with Derek. If anything, it just raises a bunch of new ones. What does Derek want? Is this his thing? And if it is, is Stiles on board with it?

It has to be his thing. No one looks that wrecked if they’re having “not their thing, just kinda okay” sex. Stiles knows this because his thing is werewolves, and sex with Derek? Yeah, wrecked him. Took him completely apart.

That whole “pup” business of Derek’s? Yeah, that was going straight into the Greatest Hits collection of the spank bank. Orgasm gold. Weirdly, though, he thinks some of Derek’s gratuitous belly groping might end up there, too. He has to admit, didn’t see that one coming. 

The thing is, though, having all this newfound knowledge doesn’t actually do Stiles any fucking good. Knowing that—probably—Derek has a thing for his tummy and maybe wouldn’t care—or would seriously like it—if he got a little bigger? That doesn’t really tell him anything except that Derek is a kinkier bastard than he would have guessed. Or, at least, Derek is differently kinked than Stiles had expected. What with all the wall-throwing and body checking that had gone on in their early days, Stiles had Derek pegged as more of the BDSM kinda guy, if anything. 

And, to be fair, that might still be a thing. Derek is definitely into being in charge, in bed or out of it. 

But all of that shit—interesting though it is—is ultimately secondary to the fact that Stiles has _no fucking clue_ where he and Derek stand. And no idea how to find out, either. It’s maddening. Stiles can think of plenty of forms of torture—and hell, he’s actually experienced some of them in his super fun adventures with the supernatural—but he’s pretty sure that Not Knowing Something might be the most awful thing that can ever happen to him. Seriously. It’s awful. 

To comfort himself in the face of all of this uncertainty, Stiles spends the rest of his Sunday consoling himself with copious amounts of carryout from the dining hall (a decision with implications that he firmly refuses to consider or acknowledge) and composing texts to Derek that he never actually sends. 

* 

Derek is completely unsurprised when his betas give him the third degree about visiting Stiles. 

“So nothing exciting happened, you guys just hung out all weekend?” Boyd’s expression is skeptical. 

Derek nods. The less he says, the better. They can obviously smell Stiles on him. This conversation needs to end. 

“Hung out and did what?” Isaac pushes. 

Derek sighs. “Watched TV. Nothing special.”

“So you guys just hung out in Stiles’ room, mostly. Netflix and chill, then?” 

“Yes,” Derek says firmly. For some reason, Boyd and Scott both snort laughter at that and exchange a loaded look. 

Goddamnit. He rues the day he ever decided that recruiting a bunch of teenagers was any way to form a pack. 

And also? It’s been two days, and he still hasn’t heard from Stiles. Not a single text, and usually the kid blows his phone up. Sometimes just with stupid shit—he once spent an entire day sending Derek nothing but pictures of snakes wearing hats. Top hats. Fedoras. Sombreros. The little pointy hats that kids wear at birthday parties. It was baffling, but it was something. This radio silence is a whole different story. It annoys Derek that he misses the contact. 

*

By Wednesday, Stiles is about to explode—from anxiety, because he hasn’t heard from Derek all week, but also just literally explode. 

Yeah, his stress eating game is strong. He’s been eating steadily all week, and tonight he actually ate dinner twice, a couple of burgers and fries first in the cafeteria with his friends, and then Thai delivery holed up in his room. Whatever. Pad thai makes him feel better, okay? Right up until the moment it makes him feel worse, that is. His tummy actually _hurts_ , and it’s bloated as hell.

He flops down on his bed, tries in vain to get comfortable, and finally pulls out his phone. Fuck it. He’s going to get some answers. 

_So we ever gonna talk about this or nah?_

He hits send before he can second guess himself. 

In typical Derek fashion, the response is anything but instant. A good twenty minutes later, this little gem appears: 

_?_

Stiles can feel his teeth grinding down to dust. 

_Seriously, dude? Okay, allow me to elaborate for you. We spent this weekend in bed together. Touching dicks and stuff. And huh, that’s new, amirite? Maybe worth having a brief state of the union type conversation?_

He hits send, then promptly continues typing. 

_Not to mention the fact that it was some seriously weird fucking sex, Derek. That part where you were like “Hey Stiles you’re fat LOL I love it” is probably something we should talk about it. Kind of the elephant in the room, buddy. OMG, *I* am the elephant in the room._

He hits send, pauses for a moment. 

_See what I did there? Fat joke? Eh?_

Derek’s response is faster this time, but no more illuminating: 

_You’re not an elephant._

 _OH FFS DEREK THAT IS NOT THE POINT. And also, dude. I think I’ve eaten my weight in junk food since you left Sunday, so yeah, maybe?_

 _

What did you eat?

NO. Not important now, you weirdo. 

What then? 

Umm, Idk, maybe what you think happened this weekend? Is it going to happen again? Are you a fucking chubby chaser? Feel free to start with any of those questions.

_

Derek doesn’t respond for a good five minutes, and Stiles wants to throw his phone out the window. 

_We fooled around. It could happen again. If you want._

 _And the last question?_

 _

It’s a stupid name.

But does it FIT?

Maybe.

_

Coming from Derek, that “maybe” constitutes a full confession, Stiles knows. God, the man is impossible to talk to. 

_Maybe? You forcefed me egg rolls until I couldn’t breathe, dude._

 _I would never force you to do anything, Stiles._

 _

Figure of speech, buddy. But the point stands. 

Ok.

_

Stiles rolls his eyes, staring at the screen as if he can will Derek into texting something more useful. 

He can’t. 

_Okay, so you like feeding me shit?_

 _Yes._

 _

Because you’re a kinky bastard? And you like my pudge? Jesus. I never thought there would be a scenario where we’d have this conversation. 

You are making us have this conversation.

_ Stiles groans. Christ, this is difficult. 

He switches tactics. Pulls himself up into a sitting position against his headboard, pulls his t-shirt up above his belly. Holds his phone out and snaps a few shots. Fuck. He really does look bloated, tummy folding over the straining button on his jeans, little pockets of flesh folding over the sides. 

Love handles. Those are love handles. Derek better seriously make this worth his while, or Stiles swears to Christ he’s going to start living in the gym. 

Here goes nothing. He picks the best shot—and by best, in this case, he means the one where he looks, objectively, the fattest—and sends it to Derek. No words. Just sends it. 

The response is instantaneous. Seriously, does Derek’s superhuman speed apply to texting? Possibly.

_Does it hurt?_

For some reason, Stiles feels his heart speed up. 

_A little, actually._

 _What did you eat?_

Stiles blushes. Eliciting this response was exactly why he’d sent the fucking picture in the first place, but now that it’s happening, that _shameguiltpleasure_ feeling from the weekend is washing over him again, and it’s overwhelming. 

_Couple of burgers and fries at the cafeteria earlier._

 _And?_

 _

Jesus, how do you know there’s an and, Derek? 

I saw you eat four boxes of Chinese takeout Saturday night. And?

_

Stiles can picture Derek saying the words, one eyebrow cocked up like Stiles is so ridiculous for even trying to get away with a half-truth. 

_And then I had some pad thai delivered._

 _And?_

 _

And two orders of spring rolls, Jesus Christ, is this the inquisition?

Poor greedy pup.

_ Fuuuuuuck. If Stiles’ dick was interested before, it is absolutely aching now. His fingers hover over the screen, unsure of how to respond. 

_I wish you were here_ , he finally texts back. He already feels completely exposed, absolutely stripped bare, all of his insecurities already on the table. He might as well be fucking honest. 

_I would rub your belly. Take care of you._

 _Yeah?_

 _

Yes. Make you feel so much better. Tell you how good you are.

Good for stress eating until my jeans are about to pop off?

Yes. Unbutton them and lay down. Take another picture. 

_

Stiles does as he’s told, and the feeling of relief he gets when he tugs the button free on his jeans is immediate. He lays down and snaps a few shots, and he’s stunned by the angry red lines across the bottom of his tummy, where his jeans were digging into his skin. He’d known they were tight, but Jesus. He hits send with one hand, the other already on his dick. 

_Poor pup. Poor belly. Fuck, Stiles, getting so big._

Somehow, just the words on the screen are enough, and Stiles’ hand moves faster. Drops his phone, closes his eyes. He’s coming in his boxers in ninety seconds.

So. Guess that answers some of his questions. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments and kudos are giving me LIFE.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, just for the record, I am having all the chubby Derek feels lately, too, and I have headcanon for days for a new chubby Derek fic. So that's a thing that is probably going to happen. Maybe.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles comes home for Thanksgiving break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com) and taking prompts.

Stiles wishes he could say that after their at least somewhat-illuminating text exchange, this thing between him and Derek was clearly defined, easy to understand. But that’s not what happens.

Instead, weirdly, things just sort of go on. He goes to class. He studies. He writes papers, takes tests, shoots the shit with his friends and hangs out with the guys that live on his floor. He lives his life.

It’s just that now his life includes a lot more Derek. 

Some days it’s just a few texts—and, always, Stiles has to send the first one. But Derek almost always responds within ten minutes, which is completely unlike him. And he even uses more than a word or two—hell, Stiles has caught him sending multiple sentence responses sometimes. It’s progress. 

They don’t exactly address anything that’s happened between them. They just dance around it, circling and circling. 

Stiles will complain that all of his buddies are out getting laid after he comes in late from a party. Derek will send back some sharp response about how he’s not missing much, fucking some drunk chick in the bathroom at a shitty house party. 

_No, that wouldn’t be nearly as good as, say, letting a werewolf call me fat and blow me, huh?_ Stiles might pop off in return. 

_Well, you tell me_ , Derek would shoot back.

And then, _And I’ve never called you fat._

It’s fun, playing with Derek this way—and that’s what they’re doing, Stiles knows. Flirting, teasing, playing. Because of the distance between them, combined with the knowledge that Stiles will be home for Thanksgiving in just a couple of weeks, there’s no urgency to it. Just a warm, building heat. And the longer it goes on, the more Stiles lets himself relax into the idea that this is happening. That maybe when he gets home for the holiday, they’ll talk. Or go out. Or fuck. Something. 

*

Stiles’ gets home for the holiday on Wednesday morning, and he wants to just drive straight to Derek’s loft, but he makes himself resist that temptation. So often with Derek, it’s Stiles who has to make the first move. Stiles that has to text first. Stiles that has to push him to use his words. He doesn’t want to run straight to Derek’s—even though he _does_ want to run straight to Derek’s. 

So he goes home instead, lets his Dad wrap him up in a classic Stilinski bear hug, and as soon as it’s happening, he realizes this was probably the better choice, anyway. He’s been preoccupied with Derek, with classes, with life away from home, but he’s also seriously missed his Dad. 

“You look good, son,” John says, holding Stiles back at arm’s length and taking a look at him. The expression on his face is all beaming proud father, but Stiles can’t help but squirm just a little, wondering if that “you look good” is some sort of code for the weight he’s gained. He’s still not sure if it’s noticeable to people or not. He hasn’t gone near a scale, so he doesn’t really know what the damage is, and it’s cold enough that he can totally justify hoodies and sweaters and layers that camouflage his tummy. But still.

If it is code for his weight, though, John lets it go at that, just smiling and settling in as Stiles starts to fill him in on everything. They sit at the kitchen table, and John shoves a box of donuts over to him. 

“Donuts? Dad, tell me you haven’t been eating this junk the whole time I’ve been gone?” Yes, Stiles knows he is the worst kind of hypocrite. Whatever. He loves his dad. 

John rolls his eyes. “Not usually, no. Sally sent them home from the station this morning. We had a bunch and she knew you’d be home. Figured you and Scott would be in and out all day and you’d eat ‘em.” 

Stiles nods, appeased, and helps himself to a long john, the kind with chocolate frosting on top and cream in the middle. Fucking heaven in fried dough form. “Yeah, I need to call Scott, see what’s up,” he says around a mouthful. 

“How do you feel about Thanksgiving over at Melissa’s tomorrow, actually?”

Stiles raises his eyebrows. They’ve done holidays with Scott and his mom for years now—it just makes sense, with Rafe usually out of the picture and Stiles’ mom gone. Together, they can form one whole family. “Yeah, sure.” He eyeballs his dad and picks up a bear claw. Fuck it, he has to eat these to make sure his dad doesn’t. He’s jumping on a grenade here. Totally selfless. 

But yeah—Thanksgiving with the McCalls isn’t anything newsworthy—and it definitely shouldn’t warrant that slightly awkward, weirdly schoolboy-esque grin his father is sporting. Unless. “Oh my god, did you and Melissa finally—“ he pauses searching for the right word, and finally just flails his hands together in a possibly vulgar “coming together” kind of motion that he totally did not mean to in any way suggest sexual congress. 

John takes pity on him—or just wants to stop Stiles’ horrible, horrible hand gesturing—and interrupts. “Yes—er—yes.” He looks nervous, like he’s not sure how to explain or how Stiles is going to take it. 

Stiles grins, big and easy. “Dad, that’s great. Seriously. Melissa McCall is a freaking goddess, and you guys should have done this years ago. Is it serious? Hey, does this make me and Scott brothers? OH MY GOD YOU COULD ADOPT HIM.”

John rolls his eyes, but Stiles can tell his Dad is relieved that Stiles is happy. “It’s serious enough,” he answers. “And Scott has a father. He’s a dick, but he exists. And anyway, Stiles, Scott is 19 years old. You can’t go around adopting adults.” 

Stiles shrugs, reaching out for one more donut. “I’m just saying, Scott Stilinski would sound awesome.”

*

Since he’s going to see Scott tomorrow, anyway, Stiles caves and texts Derek Wednesday afternoon when his dad heads into the station to pull an evening shift. 

_Are you brooding alone on Thanksgiving Eve?_

The reply is gratifyingly swift. 

_I’m not brooding._

 _Wyd?_

 _

?

OMG, learn to speak text. What you doing? 

At home. 

_

Stiles glares down at his phone. Seriously, could Derek not take a fucking hint and invite him over? He’s seriously such an asshole. Well, fuck it. Stiles is clearly going to have to quarterback this thing.

_Wanna chill for a while?_

 _You’re not with Scott and Isaac?_

 _

Nah, gonna see them all day tomorrow.

_ Stiles waits for a response, realizing that maybe Derek hadn’t been texting him all day because he was trying to give him space to see his friends. As if Derek isn’t quite a friend—or more than a friend, really—in his own right. It’s the way he’s always been with the pack. One of them, their Alpha, the person that connects them, but yet not quite one of them. 

The guy creates a pseudo-family and then exiles himself to the fringes of it. It’s fucking heartbreaking if Stiles lets himself think about it too much. 

His response, when it comes, is typically, annoyingly Derek. 

_Come over._

*

The door to the loft opens before Stiles can raise his hand to knock. Fucking annoying werewolf hearing. It’s creepy. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, but before he can get another word out Derek tugs him inside, shuts the door, and pushes Stiles against it, blocks him in with an arm braced on the door on either side of Stiles’ head. 

“You smell good,” he says, and then he’s kissing Stiles. Derek is a good kisser—too good, almost, like in order to be that technically proficient at something it has to be performed with a kind of clinical detachment. He manages to dominate the kiss completely without ever seeming like he’s overeager or rushed. He will pull back, suck Stiles’ lower lip into his mouth, bite it with very human teeth. Then in the next breath he’s pushing into Stiles’ mouth, forcing Stiles to yield. It’s dizzying. 

When Derek pulls away, his eyes are red. 

“Jesus, Derek. So you missed me, huh?” He laughs weakly. 

“Want you,” Derek says, voice lower than his normal speaking voice, raspier, the way it always gets when he’s closer to a shift than usual. He moves forward, crowding Stiles against the door until their bodies are pressed together, chest to groin. 

“Fuck. Yeah, want you, too.” Stiles moves his hips up against Derek, a slow, blatant roll of invitation. He didn’t think this way how this was going to go tonight—not right out of the gate like this, anyway—but if Derek’s down, then he is so, so on board. 

“Slut,” Derek breathes into his ear when Stiles thrusts against him, and he brings one hand down to grip Stiles’ ass. 

Fuck. No one has ever spoken to Stiles like that—in fact, with the very fucking notable exception of Derek calling him pup a few weeks ago, no one has ever dirty talked him at all, especially not something like that, something that should be degrading, maybe, but it _isn’t_. It just fucking makes Stiles feel unwound and pliant, because he _wants_ to be a slut for Derek, wants to do whatever Derek wants, wants to let Derek take the lead. 

So Stiles is slutty. Without even thinking about it, he raises one leg and wraps it around Derek’s waist. It must have been a good decision, because Derek growls and grabs him, pulls him up against him so that Stiles has no choice to wrap the other leg around him, as well. Derek carries him across the loft like he weighs nothing. When they get to the bed, Stiles half-expects to be dumped down on it roughly, but he’s not. Instead, Derek lays him down as if he’s breakable, like he’s made of spun glass. 

“Take this off,” Derek says, gesturing to Stiles’ hoodie and then tugging his own shirt over his head in one practiced motion. 

Stiles pulls his hoodie off, managing not to get stuck inside it. He’s wearing a white tee under it, but he leaves that on, suddenly shy about the idea of pulling it off as well. It’s ridiculous—not only was he completely naked with Derek a few weeks ago, but he’s sent him a few very compromising pictures of his tummy in the interim. Pictures that were met with noisy enthusiasm on Derek’s part. 

But still, that doesn’t change the fact that here, now, Stiles feels shy all over again. 

Derek, who is stepping out of his jeans, looking stupidly comfortable with his own nudity as he reveals that he did not, in fact, wear underwear today, gives Stiles a predatory look. “That too, pup. All of it.” 

And fuck if that little term of endearment isn’t enough to get Stiles moving. He tugs at the button his jeans. He has to suck his breath in a little bit in order to maneuver well enough to unfasten them, and his cheeks are already heating up. He knows, at least logically knows, that Derek doesn’t give a shit that his jeans are too tight—that actually Derek is _totally here for that shit_ , apparently, if everything leading up this can be believed. And, judging from the look on Derek’s face as he shoves his jeans and boxers down his thighs, it can absolutely be believed.

So yeah, he knows all that. But he also knows that his body was never anything like the fucking statue-of-a-Greek-god thing Derek has going on, even before he gained this weight. And now? Now all the ways that he isn’t Derek are just magnified. 

Derek grabs his crumpled jeans and tugs them off at the ankle, freeing Stiles before he can flop around any more. Stiles tries to relax, knowing his heartbeat must be off the charts, but before he can, Derek is pulling at his t-shirt like it actively offends him. “Take it _off_ , Stiles,” Derek says, blatantly abusing his Alpha voice. Stiles isn’t actually a wolf, so the compulsion to obey isn’t exactly biological, but the urge is still there, all wrapped up messy and complicated with his sexual desire for Derek and his place in Derek’s pack. It is, frankly, a bit of an unfair advantage, but Stiles pulls the shirt slowly over his head. 

“There, good boy,” Derek breathes, and he must sense Stiles’ apprehension—sense it, smell it, know it the way he seems to know everything about Stiles in moments like this. “So good for me.” 

Stiles blushes, but he also relaxes, just a bit, lets himself lie still and look up at Derek, beautiful and wild above him. 

Derek reaches out with one hand, traces a line across Stiles’ delicately bared throat, down his chest. When he circles a nipple and tugs it, Stiles gasps, but before he can do more than register the sensation, Derek’s hand has moved on, circling his navel and then actually _patting_ Stiles’ belly a few times. Stiles starts to complain, but Derek already looks absolutely enthralled. Somehow, in this moment he looks every inch the wolf he is, even though he’s got control of everything, even his eyes. The intensity of his expression is enough, though, that Stiles shuts his mouth, just lies there, lets Derek touch and look, prod his tummy and lean down, rub his scruff against it again, like he did the first time. Stiles holds perfectly, purposefully still, careful not to move at all. It’s important, somehow, that he let Derek look and touch and rub his fill. He needs to give this to Derek. _Submit_ to Derek. 

When Derek moves down to his thighs, licking and biting and sucking up marks until Stiles knows that he’ll be ringed with bruises again, it’s all Stiles can do to keep his hips still. He wants to shove his hips forward, wants to writhe and moan until Derek does something, anything, to take him over the edge. He thinks if Derek would move half an inch, hold his mouth over Stiles’ dick and just breathe, he’d come. 

Instead,though, Derek pulls himself up to look at Stiles, mouth wet and messy, fangs dropped just a little, eyes still green. “Christ. Wanna fuck you, pup. Wanna be inside you.” Derek’s voice is trashed, low and guttural, and Stiles feels his body go slack, even more so than before. He’s not sure he could say no, even if he wanted. He just wants to roll over, let Derek fuck him through the mattress, even though the rational part of his mind is screaming that he’s not ready, not for this, not for Derek’s frankly huge cock in his ass, not yet. 

Derek must read his apprehension, or smell it, because he keeps talking. “Not today. Not today, shhh, not yet.” It’s that same voice he’s used before, when he tells Stiles he’s good, good for Derek, and it pours over Stiles in warm, comforting waves. “But—roll over for me, baby. Roll over and let me—let me make you feel good, yeah? Not gonna fuck you, but—“

Before Derek can elaborate, Stiles is scrambling up, so fucking eager to obey, wanting so badly to please Derek. 

“That’s right, baby, hands and knees, that’s so good.” Derek is crooning, already crowding up behind him, one hand reaching around to squeeze Stiles’ very exposed tummy, the other stroking over his side, his lower back, gripping his ass. “So good. Hold still, just for a minute.” Stiles moans at the loss of contact when Derek pulls away, but he just reaches into the dresser beside the table and pulls out a little bottle, draping himself back over Stiles in an instant. 

“Wanna finger you, pup. You let me?” Derek’s hand is stroking over Stiles’ ass again, dipping down close to his hole, close, but not there yet, just circling. “I won’t hurt you, pup, be so gentle with you”—

“Yes, fuck, Derek, yes.” 

This is nothing Stiles hasn’t done to himself. In the shower, sprawled across his bed—he’s been fingering himself for years, been opening himself up and desperately fucking down on his own hand since before he ever met Derek. But somehow, feeling Derek touch him this way, slick fingers circling around him and then sliding oh-so-carefully inside him, careful but not too slow, is completely, wildly different. Derek moves his fingers in a filthy slide that ends with Derek crooking his fingers just fucking right and brushing Stiles’ prostrate until he screams, so intense that Stiles can’t quite come, that his arms and knees give out and Derek is gripping him hard around the waist, one hand holding him up by his belly. 

Derek backs off a little, scissoring his fingers in a way that burns but still feels wonderful, teasing his prostate but not quite touching it, letting Stiles catch his breath a bit. 

“Wanna make you come now, pup. Can you come for me, baby?” Derek says after a moment, his fingers still sliding filthily in and out of Stiles, his other hand tightly gripping the pudge of Stiles’ lower belly. 

Stiles humps back helplessly. “Yes, fuck, want to so bad.”

“That’s good, pup, that’s what I want,” Derek whispers, sliding his hand down from Stiles’ belly to his cock. His hand isn’t slick, there’s nothing but precome for lube, and it sort of hurts, almost, especially in tandem with Derek’s more forceful touches against his prostate. It’s overwhelming, and Stiles feels his knees starting to give out again, but Derek holds him through it, chin tucked over Stiles’ shoulder, mouthing against his neck. It’s almost painful and it’s too much, but it’s also just fucking right, perfect and intense, and Stiles comes suddenly, almost without warning, his vision whiting out as Derek finger-fucks and strokes him through it. 

Stiles collapses to the mattress, but Derek follows him right on down, propping himself up over Stiles. Stiles hears the cap on the lube flip open again, and he figures he should look back to see what Derek’s doing, but he just can’t, so he lays there, ass up, exposed, panting, and just trusts Derek.

“Not gonna fuck you, pup, not tonight, but”—Derek trails off into a growl, slicking his cock. “But this—your thighs, baby, fuck.” Derek’s babbling, and he doesn’t bother to explain anything, but Stiles figures out pretty quickly what Derek wants. He slides his cock between Stiles’ thighs, thrusting, letting the head of his cock press against Stiles’ balls, still tight and high from orgasm. Even that little contact is almost too much. Stiles squirms, but Derek grabs the back of his neck and _holds_. It’s not painful but it’s firm, and Stiles once again forces his body into stillness. Held like that, pinned down, he’s acutely aware of the fact that it’s not a man but a werewolf behind him, holding him down and taking what he wants. It’s completely at odds with the careful, gentle way Derek fucked him open on his hand, moving like he was delicate, breakable. The contrast is heady, and Stiles loves it. 

Derek’s thrusts get erratic, and before Stiles can register what’s happened, Derek rolls him over onto his back and towers over him, jerks his cock roughly a few times and growls, coming all over his belly again. 

Afterward, when they’re lying together in Derek’s big bed, he pinches at Stiles’ tummy, traces the indented lines where Stiles’ jeans dug into the softest part of his waist. “You gained more weight.” 

Stiles squirms, bats at his hand. “Thanks, buddy. I love how you live to tell me shit like that.” 

“I know.” 

*

When Stiles shows up at the loft on Friday for what everyone has deemed “Packsgiving,” he’s not sure how to act. He’d only exchanged a few texts with Derek the day before—not much beyond a “Happy Thanksgiving” message, and a flippant remark about Melissa McCall’s pecan pie being orgasm-inducing. (Which, dude. He’d had four pieces and had no regrets. She made that shit once a year, and Stiles always took full advantage.) Now, though, the pack is here, and Stiles has no idea what he should do.

Derek, as usual, is no fucking help at all. He doesn’t make any real eye contact with Stiles, just raises his hand in a greeting and then leans back against the kitchen counter, watching his pack put together a meal with varying levels of success. Scott and Isaac are staring confusedly at the instructions on a box of premade garlic bread, but Allison and Lydia are layering noodles for lasagna, both holding glasses of red wine and somehow looking more like grown women than they ever have before. They’re laughing, a little slap-happy, but also competent and at ease, somehow a little smoother and more polished than they were four months ago when Stiles left. Is that what college does? Is he different, too? 

Without a dining room table, the pack just fills their plates and finds places in the living room to sit and eat. It’s noisy but intimate, cozy. It’s nice, seeing the pack together like this, whole and happy, nothing stalking them, haunting them, hunting them. Just pack. Together. 

“So you get laid yet, Stilinksi?” Jackson asks after the meal, when everyone is sitting around, lazy and full. “Get the full college experience?”

Stiles feels his cheeks flush to crimson, and he very purposely does _not_ look anywhere remotely in Derek’s direction. “I guess college hasn’t made you less of a douche, huh.”

Jackson smirks. “I’ll take that as a no.” 

Before Stiles can fire anything back, the conversation shifts around him, and Lydia is handing him a plate with a huge slice of cheesecake on it. He’s already had one, so he’s not sure what she’s up to, but she just smiles at him. “Eat,” she says. He can’t quite read her expression, but it’s kind. He shrugs, digging in, and when he looks up, Derek is staring right at him. 

Of course, the moment he’s caught, the bastard looks away, acting like whatever the fuck Jackson and Erica are arguing about is interesting. 

A few bites later, Stiles catches him staring again. 

And then immediately pretending that he wasn’t. 

Seriously, are they fucking twelve? They’re just going to make moon eyes at one another across the room and never speak? 

Or this was a casual thing to Derek, not something he’d ever consider sharing with the pack. That was actually the more likely option, Stiles figures. 

But seriously, if that’s Derek’s deal? Then fuck him. Fuck. Him. He doesn’t get to do that shit to Stiles. Have that weird-ass, intimate, potentially humiliating sex and then just pretend it never happened, pretend that Stiles hadn’t fucking offered himself up to Derek, _literally_ showing Derek his soft, exposed underbelly and trusting that he wouldn’t get hurt. If this is how Derek wants to play it—like it never happened—then Stiles is going to make it hard for him. 

He wraps his mouth around the fork with a purpose on the next bite, pulling the utensil out slowly and then licking chocolate sauce from the corner of his mouth. Is Derek looking at him now? Fuck yes he is, looking uncomfortable as hell, too. 

So Stiles pushes it a little further. Finishes that piece, then surreptitiously gets up and heads into the kitchen. The rest of the pack is occupied, laughing and joking together, and they don’t notice when he leaves—but Derek does. Stiles can feel his eyes on him as he cuts himself a third piece of cheesecake. It’s fucking rich, and to be honest, this is the last thing Stiles wants. He ate a ton of lasagna and garlic bread as it was, and two pieces of cheesecake was more than enough, especially considering his poor tummy was still probably bloated from Melissa’s Thanksgiving meal the day before. But fuck it. If this is how he has to get Derek’s attention, this is how he’ll get it. 

If Stiles were a wolf, he’d be able to smell Derek’s arousal. He’s sure of it, and it feels like a victory, even as his stomach clenches in protest as he starts shoving down that third piece of cheesecake. 

It’s a hollow one, though. Before he’s even halfway through, Derek suddenly, abruptly stands up, eyebrows drawn down tight. “Going for a run,” he says, terse as ever. And just like that, he’s gone.

With no audience of one to cater to, there’s no reason to finish the cheesecake. Stiles’ stomach hurts, and he really doesn’t need it. 

He finishes it anyway, though, just to have something to do with his hands and an excuse not to talk. 

Fuck. Since when did he eat his feelings? 

*

That night, Stiles curls up miserably in his old bedroom, cradling his bloated gut and wishing like hell he hadn’t eaten quite so much. 

Fucking Derek. Fuck him. He wants Stiles to be his dirty little secret, let him indulge in whatever fucked up fantasies he has, and then pretend nothing happened between them? NO. 

Even if Stiles didn’t care—and oh god, he cares so much, he fucking hates how much he cares—it’s not fair, just on a purely superficial level. After all, Derek can call this thing with Stiles quits at any time, and he and his ridiculous fucking abs can walk away, no worse for the wear, just like they did tonight. But Stiles? He’s stuck carrying however the fuck many extra pounds he’s somehow managed to gain, and he’s stuck with them with or without Derek. How the fuck is that fair? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't plan for there to be angst in this fic. Then again, I also didn't plan on writing 12K words of chubby kink with multiple future chapters planned, either, sooooo....
> 
> Comments/kudos will be ridiculously well received and appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lydia takes it upon herself to intervene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a distinct lack of sex in this chapter, and it's a little short--but I still really dig it.

Derek knows that it’s not Stiles pulling up in front of the loft on Saturday morning. The Jeep has a pretty distinctive sound, and this vehicle is much quieter. When he hears the clatter of high heels approaching, he knows it’s Lydia. The question is why? He and Lydia have a strange relationship. He wouldn’t quite call it a friendship—but he’s certainly closer to her than, say, Allison.

When he opens the door, Lydia brushes past him like she owns the place. “I brought you leftovers,” she says, waving two stacked Tupperware containers at him and heading for the fridge. “Turkey and stuffing, all that crap. The maid packed it up for you.” 

Derek snorts. She’s such a princess. “Thanks.”

Lydia nods, taking out one of the containers and dumping a big slice of pumpkin pie on a plate, grabbing two forks. “Sit,” she says, pointing at the couch.

Lydia is bossy as hell. Sometimes Derek half wonders if she’ll rip his throat out someday and run the pack herself. 

He sits.

Lydia hands him the plate and then sits down next to him, kicking off her high heels and curling her legs up underneath her. She manages to do it without risking indecency, which is a bit of a miracle in her ridiculously short skirt. She reaches out and grabs one of the forks and takes a bite of pie, but waves the plate away when Derek tries to hand it to her. “We’re sharing, asshole. Eat. We need to talk.” 

Derek dutifully takes a bite—and yeah, he doubts Lydia’s mom made this, but the maid is apparently also a hell of a cook. “We do?”

“Yes. What the fuck are you doing to Stiles?”

Derek chokes a little bit, nearly drops the plate. “What?”

“Don’t play coy, Derek. You’re too old for that shit, and I don’t have time for it. I have a manicure in an hour, so let’s get down to it.” She brandishes her fork at him and glares. “What. Did you do. To Stiles.”

Derek frowns, setting the plate down on the sofa between them and scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Uh. We’ve been talking, some.” 

“You’ve been doing more than talking,” Lydia says, picking up the abandoned pie and taking another bite before forcing it back into Derek’s hands. “So why don’t you tell me why yesterday Stiles was eating like he thought he could find the cure for cancer at the bottom of a pan of lasagna? And why you were eyeballing him like you maybe thought the same thing?”

Fuck. Derek is blushing now. He never blushes. And he has no idea what to say. “Uh.” 

“Words, Derek Hale. Use them.”

Derek sighs. “We’ve fooled around.” 

“Yeah, I get that. And Stiles has gained about twenty pounds. So why don’t you tell me how those two things are connected, hmm?”

Derek feels his eyebrows shoot up. “Twenty?”

“Fifteen, at the least. Probably closer to twenty. I know he thinks he’s hiding it, bundled up in those layers, and I doubt most of the pack noticed. But yes.”

“Why did you notice?” Derek asks. He’s sort of losing the thread of the conversation. Hearing that number is distracting.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “I’m a short girl with hips and thighs for days. I notice weight gain—mine and other people’s.”

Derek drops his eyes down her body and snaps them back to her face. Lydia is gorgeous, and she’s not lying about her curves. He’d be blind not to notice. But his appreciation is purely clinical, and judging from Lydia’s expression, she seems to know it. At any rate, she doesn’t seem offended by the up-and-down.

“Anyway, Derek. You want to tell me why Stiles is eating his weight in cheesecake suddenly?”

“You gave him the second piece,” Derek says without thinking.

“Yes, I did, and you noticed. And then when he got a third piece—which, by the way, was a terrible idea that he only even considered because he was trying to get your attention—you disappeared.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t know what to say. Fucking Lydia. She’s too smart by half. 

“And you know what?” she continues, sounding pissed but handing over the half-eaten slice of pie like a peace offering. “Stiles looked fucking devastated when you left.” 

“He did?” Derek’s chest clenches. He wasn’t trying to hurt him. He just—fuck. 

“Yes. He choked down the rest of that fucking cheesecake, looked sick all night, and left early. So I ask again—what is going on?”

Derek sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t fucking know,” he admits. 

“Is Stiles eating all that shit because he thinks you like it?” 

Jesus. Lydia has always been blunt, but college seems to have made her even more direct than before. 

“Probably.”

“Because you do, in fact, like it?” she presses. 

“Fuck, Lydia, yes, all right? Jesus.” 

Lydia smiles. “Okay then. So why are you being a dick?”

“What? I’m not being a dick.” 

“Then why does Stiles look like someone drowned his puppy? Hmm?”

Derek flinches. That’s not what he wants. That’s never what he wanted. He sighs again, and offers Lydia the last bite of pie. She turns it down, so he takes his time chasing it around the plate before he finally eats it. “I don’t know what he wants,” he finally says. “This thing between us. I didn’t mean for it to happen—not like this, anyway. It’s new, and it’s--“ he pauses, searching for the right word—“delicate. He’s young, and I’m…not _good_ at this.”

“Apparently not, since you basically ignored him all day yesterday.” 

Derek raises his hands, half in surrender and half in frustration. “I didn’t—okay, I did ignore him, but not because I wanted to hurt him! My god, he was over here Wednesday night, practically fell asleep in my bed. Why would he think that I wanted to hurt him after that?”

Lydia looks at him like he’s got a hole in his head. “Are you fucking kidding me, Hale? You guys did whatever it is that you do on Wednesday, and then you ignored him yesterday? How was he _supposed_ to feel? And for the record? If he’s gaining weight for you, if that’s the thing you two are doing—and that’s fine, no one cares, it’s fine, it’s cool, whatever—then you need to _step up._ That is an incredibly vulnerable place to be, and he’s going there for you. He would do anything for the person he has feelings for. Jesus Christ, Derek, don’t you remember when he thought he was in love with me? He’d have jumped off a bridge if I told him to. If he thinks you want him to get fat, then he’s gonna do it. And again, I’m not saying you guys can’t do that. But you have to talk about it, Derek. And you have to fucking take care of him. For chrissakes.”

“I didn’t want to make it obvious to the pack,” Derek says quietly. “Stiles is human. Hell, you’re human. You don’t know what it would mean, if everyone knew he was—was _with_ me. It would change his place in the pack.”

Lydia frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He would be—“ Derek pauses, scrubs his cheeks. “It’s hard to explain. If I were a king, that would make him the queen,” he finally offers, looking frustrated. “That’s a bad analogy, but you see what I’m saying. It puts him in a position of authority.” 

“And you don’t want that for Stiles?”

“Does _Stiles_ want that for Stiles? I don’t want to push him into something. And it would be a problem for the betas, if it didn’t work out. It makes everything complicated.” Derek runs his hands through his hair again. “Fuck. Look, Lydia, this all started three weeks ago. I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m just trying to give him a little space.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then adds, “And I didn’t tell him to eat half a fucking cheesecake.”

Lydia snorts. “Good. Be careful with him, Derek.” Her expression gets serious again. “He would do it—would do whatever he thought would make you happy. So be careful, okay?”

“I don’t want to hurt him.” 

Lydia nods, untucking her legs and sliding back into her stilettos. “Then go fix it. I’ve got to go. Good talk, Derek. Good talk.” She leans down, drops an air kiss somewhere in the vicinity of his cheek, and drifts out of the loft on a wave of Chanel. 

*

The Sheriff’s cruiser is gone, but the Jeep is parked in front of the house. It doesn’t even occur to Derek to hesitate before climbing through Stiles’ window. Stiles never locks it. Derek used to think he must do it purposely—after all, if he’d really wanted Derek to stop, the least he could have done was make an attempt to keep him out. Not that a locked window would have been an impediment, but it would have been a symbolic gesture. 

The light is on in Stiles’ room, but it’s empty when Derek swings inside. He steps lightly across the room, inhaling, listening. He can hear Stiles’ heartbeat, smell him. Down the hall—bathroom. Derek moves silently in that direction. The bathroom door is ajar, and Derek peers in, still silent. 

And there’s Stiles, standing in front of a digital bathroom scale and staring down at it like it’s a land mine.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Really? _Really?_ Any hope Derek had of this conversation not being fucking excruciating is just flying right out of the window. 

“What’s the damage?” Derek asks, mostly because he figures there is literally no way to start this conversation that isn’t disastrous. 

Stiles spins around, letting out a little undignified squawk as he does it. “The fuck, Derek! Jesus Christ, why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Did you? Really? Because it sure hasn’t felt that way the last couple days,” Stiles says. He sounds angry, but he _looks_ hurt. Derek wants to go to him, wrap his arms around him, but he knows it’s a bad time to do it, so he just stays where he is, in the doorway of the bathroom.

Derek shrugs, trying to gather his thoughts to explain why he hadn’t given anything away in front of the pack. Before he can speak, though, Stiles is off and running again. 

“So you wanna know the damage, huh? Really? Because in private you’re just dying to do whatever the fuck weird shit you’re into with me, watch me get fucking fat because apparently that’s your thing, and then what? I end up as big as a house and you ignore me in public? What the actual fuck, Derek?” 

Stiles looks like he’s one step away from crying. “Not as big as a house,” Derek offers quietly. “I need you to at least fit comfortably in the Camaro.” 

Stiles blinks, and Derek can tell he almost laughs by the way his lip twitches, but he stifles it. He does lose a little of his steam, though. “Why, Derek? So you can not take me anywhere? Not acknowledge me? Why would it matter, when we’re not going anywhere together?”

“Listen, Stiles.” Derek sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorframe, trying to figure out what to say. “It’s been three weeks, okay. I _do_ want to take you places. I’ll take you wherever the hell you want. I’ll come pick you up. I’ll knock on the fucking door and ask your dad if I can take you out, if that’s what you want.” 

“I don’t need permission to go out,” Stiles says, petulant.

“Would you prefer me to climb through your window and abduct you, then?”

Stiles’ lip twitches again. “Maybe.” 

Derek smiles a little. “Okay.” 

“Why are you here, Derek? Seriously.”

“Lydia told me I was hurting your feelings and that I needed to fix it,” Derek says. He’s not good at this shit. It’s better if he just puts everything as baldly as he can and lets Stiles figure it out from there. 

“ _Lydia_ sent you?” Stiles looks annoyed. “So you wouldn’t have come otherwise?”

“I was trying to give you space!” Derek growls, frustrated. “You’re nineteen, and things got really intense, and I was just trying to give you some goddamned space. Let you figure out what you wanted.”

“You think I don’t know what I want?” Stiles gives him a look of absolute, disgusted incredulity. “I gained eighteen pounds for you. I ate enough cheesecake that I never want to see it again, and I fucking love cheesecake. I blew off Scott and Isaac and Boyd today so that I could stay home and eat ice cream and watch Lifetime like a girl. And you think I don’t know what I want?”

Derek stares at him a moment. “I just wanted you to be sure.” 

“I want you, you absolute asshole.”

Derek smiles a little. “Okay.” 

Stiles takes a few steps toward him, falters a little. Derek meets him halfway, rests his hands on Stiles’ shoulders. “I want you, too.” He grins. “But you didn’t gain eighteen pounds for me. It was probably only the last three or four that were for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are seriously giving me all the happy feels.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Christmas Special Chapter you didn't know you needed--but you totally did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, guys, this is it! Last chapter--and did I make it a ridiculously sweet Christmas chapter where the pack puts up a tree and watches Christmas movies? You bet your ass I did and I won't ever regret it.

Stiles gets back into Beacon Hills for Christmas break on a Friday, and Derek calls a pack meeting that night. Stiles isn’t sure how he feels about that—on the one hand, he knows the pack is eager to be together again, and he loves seeing Derek be the alpha that he’s supposed to be.

On the other hand, Stiles isn’t wild about sharing Derek’s attention with everyone else. And the last time the pack was together, Stiles ended up miserable and overly cheesecaked. So he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that he was a little nervous.

Derek has been working on talking, though. For anyone else, the level of communication Derek has been achieving would probably still be considered a failure—but for Derek, it has been a very successful two weeks. He answers all of his texts, and sometimes he even texts Stiles first. A few memorable occasions, he’d even called—and once he’d Facetimed, which Stiles found particularly adorable. There was something hysterically funny about watching Derek glower into his cell phone like a caveman approaching tools for the first time. 

Stiles doesn’t bother to knock on the door when he gets to the loft. Judging from the cars out front, most of the pack is already there, so he just lets himself in.

He’s a little nervous, but mostly he just feels warm at the sight of his friends—his _family_. A big ass Christmas tree is sitting in the corner, and Scott and Isaac are wrapping lights around it rather haphazardly while Lydia supervises, gesturing in irritation whenever they miss a spot and yelling at them to “hide the wire, you guys, tuck it behind the branches!” Allison is seated on the floor beside the tree, ripping open packages of bright red bulbs and silvery garland, and Erica and Boyd are flinging tinsel around. _Pack._

Derek comes down the stairs, and Stiles’ eyes go straight to him. “Welcome home.” Derek’s voice is quiet, but it’s warm, and Stiles feels his insides unclench a bit. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, smiling a little. “You got a tree?”

“ _I_ got a tree,” Lydia interrupts before Derek can speak. “You don’t really think Derek would have got one on his own, do you?”

Derek shrugs. “I didn’t know you guys wanted one.” 

“It’s nice,” Stiles says. He means it. Standing there, watching his friends trim the big ass, clearly expensive fir tree that Lydia had bought, feels good. Feels right. 

“She bought the biggest one on the lot,” Erica says, turning around and waving at Stiles. “It took two guys to load it up.” 

There really isn’t much of a meeting to be had. Things have been quiet, and it’s clear that Derek mostly just wanted everyone together. Precious little pack business is discussed, and after the tree is trimmed to Lydia’s satisfaction, they order pizza and watch Christmas movies. Stiles is charmed to discover that Derek has distinct opinions about holiday movies, and he steadfastly insists that A Christmas Story is superior to Home Alone—and he is willing to use his alpha status to dictate which films they watch. 

By the time they finish A Christmas Story and move on to the Claymation Rudolph (which Stiles has secretly always found a little bit creepy, but Derek apparently loved as a kid, perhaps _because_ it is creepy), he’s shifted closer and closer to Derek on the couch, and Derek just wraps an arm over his shoulders and tucks Stiles up against his body. 

It feels better than any of the other physical contact Stiles has had with Derek, and that’s saying something, since a lot of the physical contact they’ve shared recently has involved orgasms. 

When Rudolph ends, Boyd flips on the light, and Stiles peeks around the room. Allison has her long legs stretched across Scott’s lap, and her feet are sitting propped on Isaac’s thigh. All three of them look completely comfortable with the arrangement, and Stiles reminds himself to quiz Scott about it later. Erica and Boyd are snuggled into a recliner together. Lydia and Jackson are similarly curled up. A month ago, seeing everyone seem to be paired (tripled??) off together might have been hurtful. Now, tucked up under Derek’s arm, it just seems right. 

“So, you and Stiles, huh, Derek?” Erica’s voice rings across the room, and Stiles freezes. He’s not sure how Derek will handle this. He hadn’t expected Derek to drift so easily into physical affection, and it’s actually sort of amazing that no one had commented on it sooner. 

Derek shrugs. “Yes,” he says simply, and Stiles doesn’t think he could be happier if Derek had stood up and proclaimed his love for Stiles from the rooftop. 

“About fucking time,” Erica says, just as Isaac lets out a little wolf whistle. Boyd gives Derek a head nod, and Scott just sits there, looking back and forth from Derek to Stiles and back again, before Allison reaches over and swats him in the back of the head. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stiles can’t help but ask. 

“You guys have been about as obvious as a forty foot billboard, that’s what.” 

“She’s not wrong,” Boyd adds.

And just like that, it’s done. The pack knows—and none of them seem to care all that much, or even be surprised. Stiles feels like he’s walking on air. 

Later, when Stiles has disentangled himself from under Derek’s shoulder and padded into the kitchen to pull a soda from the fridge, Jackson catches him on the way back to the couch and whistles low between his teeth. “Damn Stilinski,” he says, reaching out and patting Stiles on the belly. “Where’d that come from?”

Stiles inhales, sucks his belly in instinctively. He’s wearing a green sweater, one of his favorites. He’d noticed that it was a little tight, but he’d always thought he looked good in it—it made his eyes look hazel, all pretty and flecked—and Derek had just been bitching about how he wore hoodies all the time. Apparently the hoodies had been a necessary evil, though. 

Stiles opens his mouth to defend himself, but before he can say anything, Derek’s growl is filling the entire loft. He’s suddenly between Stiles and Jackson, eyes red, fangs dropped, and looking larger than life. 

Jackson puts his hands up. “Jesus, I’m just saying,” he mumbles, taking a few steps back from his very angry alpha.

“Don’t. Don’t say it. Ever again,” Derek says, his voice a distorted half-growl, his enunciation blurred by fangs. “You treat Stiles like an extension of me, you understand me?”

Jackson nods, and Stiles watches, fascinated, as Jackson tilts his head to the side and offers up the expanse of his neck. In and of itself, the behavior isn’t anything particularly new or exciting—all the betas submit to Derek like that. This time, though, Jackson angles his body so that he’s facing Stiles, too, and he looks directly at Stiles before lowering his gaze. 

Stiles turns to Derek, wide-eyed. Derek had mentioned that being with him would change the way the betas responded to him, but he didn’t exactly warn him that this might happen. Derek ignores Stiles, though, and just nods at Jackson, apparently mollified enough that his fangs start to retract. 

In the background, Stiles hears Boyd clear his throat. “Like that, is it?”

“Yes. Just like that,” Derek says.

*

“So what the fuck was that with Jackson?” Stiles can’t help but ask later that night, when everyone else has left and he’s curled up next to Derek on the couch, lazily eating a cold slice of pizza. 

“He’s an asshole.”

Stiles laughs. “Yeah, I know—but what was the deal with that neck thing he did? Was that directed at me, dude?”

Derek stiffens a little and looks over at Stiles. “I told you that if the pack knew about us, your position would change.” 

“They have to _treat me like an extension of you_?” he asks, purposely putting on a deep fake-Derek voice. 

“Yes. Out of respect to both of us, yes they do.” 

“How does that even work?” Stiles presses. “Oh my god, am I fucking werewolf married now? Am I, like, Mrs. Alpha?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “There is no such thing as werewolf married.”

“Well, I’m werewolf somethinged.”

“You’re mine. So the pack will treat you accordingly,” Derek finally says, shrugging his shoulders. “That’s how it works.”

“I’m yours?” Stiles feels like this should bother him a little, but it doesn’t. At all.

“Yes.”

“Good to know. Usually that’s the kind of thing you might give a person a little advanced warning of, though. You know, ‘hey, just so you know, you belong to me now,’ something like that,” Stiles says, only half-joking. 

“I’m your alpha. You had to know how it would be,” Derek replies, remorseless. 

Stiles blinks. Maybe he did—and anyway, he’s starting to think he doesn’t mind it. His dick definitely doesn’t seem to mind. He snarks back at Derek anyway, just for the sake of it. “How was I supposed to know? I’ve never dated a werewolf before, buddy. Definitely not one with red eyes and a massive need to control everyone.” 

Derek growls, just a low rumble in his chest. “You like it when I control you.”

Umm. Yeah, pretty much. Stiles inhales, sitting up a little straighter. “Maybe.”

“Not maybe,” Derek says, turning to Stiles and manhandling him until he’s tugged onto Derek’s lap. “Werewolf, remember. I can smell exactly what turns you on, exactly what you want.” 

Stiles blushes a little bit, but he shifts until he’s straddling Derek’s thighs. “Yeah?”

“You know I can.”

Stiles leans back toward the coffee table and grabs a bakery box sitting there. “Well, right now all I want is one of these,” he says, nodding toward the box. There are four cupcakes left inside, all perfectly frosted to look like Christmas bells. Lydia brought those, as well. Stiles knows because they come from some expensive-ass boutique bakery. If any other pack member had been responsible for purchasing the same thing, it would have come from the grocery store and cost half as much. 

Derek raises his eyebrows and just watches as Stiles unwraps a cupcake and takes a bite. Stiles feels his cheeks heating up, just a little. He and Derek haven’t really talked about food since Thanksgiving—Stiles has been busy with finals, and they’ve been sort of feeling out this thing between them. Derek hasn’t brought up anything explicitly kinky, and Stiles doesn’t know whether to be relieved that Derek doesn’t actually intend to coax him into eating his weight in junk food every day—or disappointed that Derek doesn’t actually intend to coax him into eating his weight in junk food at least occasionally. 

When Stiles takes a second bite, a grin starts to spread over Derek’s face. It’s an easy, playful, teasing smile, the kind that Derek so rarely bestows on anyone. “See, I think what you might really want is for me to feed that to you—and maybe the other three, too.” 

Stiles chokes a little. “What makes you think that?”

Derek leans forward until he can whisper in Stiles’ ear. “Because I can smell what turns you on, and just me saying that did it for you.” 

Well, fuck. The werewolf scent thing is going to be a blessing and a curse. 

“It does it for you, too,” Stiles says petulantly, shifting a little on Derek’s lap until he can feel Derek’s cock, already half hard, beneath him. 

“Yeah, pup, it does.” Derek plucks the half-eaten cupcake out of Stiles’ hand. “Can I?”

Stiles just nods. Derek holds out the cupcake, and Stiles takes a bite, torn between feeling absolutely ridiculous and completely turned on. 

The only other time Derek fed him from his hand was the time they’d ordered Chinese, when Derek had come to visit him on campus. Derek had fed him egg rolls, and it had been mortifying and hot and confusing. Now, as they do it again, Stiles realizes that it _still_ feels that way, humiliating and hot, all tied up together and confusing and _sexy_. It’s stupid—he can feed himself, first of all, and he probably doesn’t really need to eat cupcakes after a bunch of pizza anyway, considering he is _thisclose_ to never being able to wear any of his jeans ever again. But Derek is looking at him like he hung the moon, like he’s precious, like Derek wants nothing more than to provide for him, to take care of him—if by _provide_ , you mean _stuff full of cupcakes_ and _take care of_ you mean _have sex with._

Which, yeah. Stiles wants that. Even if it makes him feel the most heady mix of guilt and shame and burning arousal he has ever known.

Stiles leans forward and takes the last bite out of Derek’s hand, letting his bottom lip drag over Derek’s thumb. There’s frosting on his finger, and fuck it, Stiles swipes his tongue out and catches it. He wants to look up at Derek’s face, but he’s equal parts embarrassed and turned on, and he can’t quite raise his eyes. 

He doesn’t need to, though, to know how Derek feels, because he growls low in his throat, lets it rumble through his big chest, and uses his free hand to drag down on Stiles’ hips, rocking up into him. Stiles takes a shaky breath. 

Derek gets a second cupcake and deftly unwraps it with one hand before shoving it in front of Stiles’ mouth without even bothering to ask if Stiles wants it or not. Which, yeah, it’s pretty obvious he does, if his enthusiastic grinding against Derek’s lap is any indication. 

Stiles moans a little bit as he takes a bite, partially just because he can’t help it, and partially because he knows it will get Derek going. And it does—Derek’s other hand moves from his hip up and around to his tummy, shoving his sweater up. He grabs a little handful of the soft pudge that folds over Stiles’ uncomfortably tight waistband, and Stiles can hear Derek gasp. Stiles resists the urge to suck his belly in. It’s hard, even as Derek is _shoving cupcakes down his throat_ , to remember that he isn’t just tolerating the fact that Stiles is a little chubby. He’s not just okay with it or willing to overlook it; he’s actively into it. 

Stiles is pretty sure that’s a fact that is going to take some time to get used to. 

“Another?” Derek asks, already unwrapping another cupcake. 

Stiles nods. Maybe Lydia was onto something with her fancy bakery, because these are fucking amazing. Or maybe it’s just that Derek’s feeding them to him. Whatever. Best cupcakes of his life. 

Derek’s free hand is jostling his tummy, prodding a little, tugging at the strained button holding his jeans together. “Those uncomfortable?” he asks, trying to run a finger between Stiles’ tummy and his waistband. 

“A little,” Stiles says, figuring there’s no reason to lie.

Derek nods. His pupils are blown, and after he feeds Stiles the last bite of the cupcake, he reaches down with both hands and pries open the button. Stiles’ belly presses forward, pushing down the zipper, and Stiles stops and looks down, a little stunned at how _round_ his gut is. No wonder Jackson commented on it. 

Derek’s hands are on him immediately, cupping his belly and pushing a little, making him look even fatter than he is. Pinching at his sides, up to the little roll that apparently has settled below his pecs. “So pretty for me, pup, so round and pretty,” Derek mumbles, practically slurring his words.

Stiles wants to joke, make some self-deprecating remark, but Derek looks so genuinely wrecked—and it’s making Stiles feel so needy, so fucking desperate—that he can’t do it. He just groans, pushing his tummy further into Derek’s hands. 

“One more, baby,” Derek says, bringing up the last cupcake. Stiles just nods, leaning forward to kiss Derek while he unwraps it. 

“You taste like sugar,” Derek says, licking thoroughly around Stiles’ lower lip. “So sweet, so good, Stiles. So good for me.”

Derek is gentle, feeding him the last cupcake slowly, pausing in between bites to rub Stiles’ belly.

“Such a good boy, Stiles, fuck,” Derek groans when Stiles takes the last bite, purposely sucking Derek’s thumb into his mouth for a moment as he does it. 

“Your good boy,” Stiles says back, too drunk on all of this to think about what he’s saying.

“Fuck. Yeah, pup. Whose good boy? Say it again,” Derek prompts, gripping Stiles’ hips again and thrusting up. 

“Your good boy. Yours, alpha,” Stiles breathes. He doesn’t plan to say it, and as soon as it falls out of his mouth, he almost regrets it—but then he realizes what it does to Derek, whose eyes immediately go red.

“Jesus, Stiles. I want—fuck,” Derek stutters. 

“You wanna fuck me, alpha?” 

Derek doesn’t respond, just stands up without warning, lifting Stiles up with him. “Yes.”

*

Derek has put some thought into how he wants things to go the first time he and Stiles have sex. He knows he’ll be Stiles’ first, and he wants it to be _good_ for him, wants to make it feel so good for his good boy. He’s imagined rimming him for hours, slowly fucking him open on his hand until Stiles is screaming, begging for his cock. He’s imagined hours of foreplay, working Stiles up until he can’t stand another second without Derek inside him. 

Now that Derek has Stiles laid out naked across his bed, though? He’s not so sure he can put the brakes on enough for any of those scenarios to come true—and judging from the way Stiles is writhing around under him, maybe Stiles doesn’t care. 

Derek leans over and pulls lube from the drawer of his nightstand, staring down at Stiles, who looks absolutely beautiful in the moonlight streaming through the window. Soft, delicate, fucking _fragile_ , and Derek just wants to mark him up, take him apart—and then hold him safe until he comes back together again. 

“How do you want to be for this?” Derek asks, feeling weirdly business-like as he slicks his fingers.

“I wanna see you.”

Derek smiles faintly. “Okay, pup.” He grabs a pillow and shoves it under Stiles’ hips, runs a hand over Stiles’ bloated tummy and down to his cock. Lets his other hand drift down, below his balls. “Ready?”

Stiles groans, nods. “Please, Derek. Please.”

“Shh, baby. Shhh. I got you.” They’ve done this part before, so Derek doesn’t waste too much time on finessing it—after a minute or two to adjust to the initial breech, he shoves in a second finger, and Stiles just groans and rolls his hips. 

He brushes against his prostate a few times, strokes his cock lightly. Stiles is already a mess, looking overwhelmed by sensations, so Derek adds a third finger, just for the sheer joy of watching Stiles fall apart a little more. 

He wiggles back some, riding Derek’s fingers, and every time he grinds down, his tummy jiggles. It’s almost too much for Derek to take; all he wants to do is lean down and _bite_ into the soft white flesh at Stiles’ belly. 

“Please, Derek. Please, I’m ready,” Stiles begs. 

“It would hurt less if you rolled over,” Derek says, stroking Stiles’ tummy and pulling his fingers free, wiping them haphazardly on his sheets. 

Stiles shakes his head. “I wanna see you. Wanna feel you over me.”

Derek nods, getting to his knees and pulling Stiles’ legs up over his elbows. “Is this okay, pup? You comfortable?” He reaches down, strokes Stiles’ full belly again. 

“Yeah,” Stiles answers, breathless and already devolving into begging. “Please, Derek, please—“

“Okay, pup. Okay.” Derek lines up, slides a few inches inside, and all he can do is watch Stiles’ face. There’s the shock of the initial burn, a wince at how much pain is involved with taking an actual dick, as opposed to fingers or even a toy. But on top of that, there is an expression of something Derek can only read as wonder—and Derek thinks it has more to do with _Derek_ than with the physical reality of getting fucked. 

Derek recognizes the expression, because he’s pretty sure he’s wearing a similar version of the same emotion across his own face. 

“Okay?” he checks. 

Stiles nods, opens his mouth a few times but can’t seem to find any words. Nods again.

“Okay, baby, okay. You’re doing so good for me, Stiles, so fucking good.” Derek slides forward, pauses, slides again until he bottoms out, and he is _in Stiles_. 

It’s never felt as good with anyone else, and they haven’t even really started yet. 

Derek holds still, waits until Stiles is thrusting up, trying to fuck himself on Derek’s cock. Then he waits a little longer, just for the joy of seeing his pretty, soft, round pup beneath him, desperate and writhing. 

“Shh, let me, pup,” he finally whispers, and starts to move. 

Someday, Derek knows, probably soon, he’s going to fuck the bejesus out of Stiles. He wants to, wants to pin him against walls, over tables, throw him down on any available surface, roll him over on his belly and cover him like a wolf. He wants all of those things, and he wants to be _rough_ when he does them. 

But not today. Today he goes so slow, so gentle, that it’s almost excruciating. 

“Can I—can I touch myself?” Stiles whimpers, reaching down toward his own cock. 

Derek blinks, almost stopping midstroke. He’s never given Stiles any instructions or rules about anything. They’ve never even talked about that kind of thing. 

But fuck, it’s exactly what Derek wants. As a man, as a wolf, as an alpha, as Stiles’ partner. Every part of Derek wants Stiles to defer to him that way. 

“Yes, baby, yes, and that was so good, asking like that. That was so good, baby,” Derek says. It’s shocking, how much he talks when he’s with Stiles. Words just seem to pour out of him, like Stiles jerks them out on a string and Derek is helpless to stop it. All he can do is shower Stiles with litanies of profane praise. 

“Thank you,” Stiles mumbles, his right hand grasping his cock and stroking, his left clamped onto Derek’s shoulder for dear life. 

“You’re so good, so perfect for me,” Derek whispers, rolling his hips into Stiles again and again, slow and dirty, like an exaggerated pantomime of fucking. “I wanna watch you come, pup. Can you do that for me? Can you come for me when I tell you?”

“Yes, Derek, god, please, oh please oh please—“

“Come. Now, Stiles. Come now.” Derek thrusts a little harder, snaps his hips. 

Stiles doesn’t respond with words, just a high desperate keen before he’s shooting up onto Derek’s chest and belly. 

Derek eases up again, barely moving as Stiles shudders through the last of his orgasm. Stiles blinks, slowly coming back to himself, and gazes up at Derek, eyes glazed and sated. “Come in me, Derek. Please—I want it, please,” he whispers.

Derek groans, willing himself not shift as he thrusts his hips again. “Shh, baby, gonna fill you up right now, been so good for me. Shh, shh.” He babbles, spewing nonsense a few more moments before he’s coming, throwing his head back and growling because he can’t stop himself. 

*

“Stay the night,” Derek says later, when they’re cleaned up and cuddled together in his bed. He knows he should phrase it as an invitation, a request instead of a command, but he doesn’t know how. 

Stiles doesn’t seem to care, anyway. “Okay.” He scoots back farther into Derek, Stiles’ back against Derek’s chest. 

Derek lets his hand fall to Stiles’ belly, rubbing in gentle circles over and over. 

“I need new jeans,” Stiles says out of nowhere.

“Want me to take you shopping tomorrow?” Derek offers. “It’s probably my fault you need new ones.”

Stiles laughs. “Not entirely, but you were kinda the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

Derek smothers a smile against Stiles’ nape. “Sorry.” 

“You are not.”

“Not really, no.”

Stiles shrugs one shoulder, tipping his head back and aiming a sloppy, affectionate kiss at Derek’s cheek. “Me neither. Not really.” 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me through this. Full disclosure: I haven't written fanfic since like 2012, but then I discovered Teen Wolf and it drug me back in. This fic has been an absolute blast to write, and your comments have made it such a good experience. All the love to you guys. 
> 
> For those of you who are wanting that chubby!Derek fic: I've got notes and I'm about to start writing the first chapter. I think it's getting out of hand already. It's a New Orleans AU, set right after Stiles finishes college, and it's got legitimate side pairings and maybe a sort-of plot? IDEK IT GOT BIG. So that's happening for sure. 
> 
> tl;dr -- thanks, people.


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